


Soft, Pink, Home

by AsYouCommand (OminousHummingObelisk)



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Bondage, Consensual Sex, Consentacles, Feeding, Healthy Relationships, Interspecies, Mechpreg, Oral Sex, Other, Oviposition, Pampering, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sounding, petting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 13:31:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6568243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OminousHummingObelisk/pseuds/AsYouCommand
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After regaining his body post-Predacons, Starscream wanders alone and friendless. He finds unexpected support in the form of a gentle organic creature that survives on the happiness that it brings to others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Soft, Pink, Home

He had flown in the rust storm for as long as he dared, until the grit clogged every sensor and lens and the steep outcroppings had surprised him one too many times. He'd found a crevice to crawl into, at least. The crack split the mountain's face deeper than he'd expected, and in the process of wriggling far enough away from the whipping grit to have some relief, he discovered that the crevice opened into a cavelet, a space just large enough for him to stand in root mode and flex his wings (thus prompting a rain of red dust to fall from his joints). This was the best comfort he could hope for, then, since he was denied the pleasure of the open sky above him.

 

And how few comforts were left to a Decepticon Air Commander in the wake of the war and the sudden dissolution of the chain of command, which had once secured for him his privileges and little amenities. The troops seemed to be positively sanguine about the rebuilding effort - the _Autobot-led_ rebuilding effort - lending their claws and backs and other military-grade frame components to whatever project happened to float to the top of the enemy's plans on a given day. His soldiers – his Lord's soldiers, more accurately, but his Lord clearly had no interest in claiming them anymore – were now out in the wreckage of the planet, doing Autobot work and taking Autobot orders. While some small part of Starscream's processor kept brooding over how his scientific background and military experience would allow him to organize and direct all those projects at least _twice_ as efficiently ( _if not_ _ **thrice**_ ), he could not bring himself - _lower_ himself! - to join the common ranks in their new postwar world. It was bad enough that he was still generally spoken of as dead, though that was somewhat understandable, given the partially-devoured, melted, thoroughly disassembled state of his frame after the Predacons had wrecked their vengeance upon it.

 

And those damned mechanimals were still out there, following their drooling heap of a king ( _a king! over two mouthventing subsapients!_ ). He hoped that they didn't know that his...friend had put his body back together, screw by screw and strut by strut, until he was whole and his spark was settled in its accustomed home. They'd rip him limb from limb again if they found him, which was reason enough to keep hidden...

 

Well, that wasn't the _main_ reason, of course. The best and most important reason was pride, Decepticon pride that remained unbowed even in defeat (and even after the desertion of their own warlord, but ideally that situation could be brushed under the flooring by a leader of appropriate strength and charisma). No, Starscream would not stand alongside Autobot oppressors who had done nothing to earn his respect. _He_ deserved to lead! Autobot backs should be bowed under his command, building not only the infrastructure that he, with his wisdom and keen eye for necessities, would personally design, but also the equally necessary monuments and megaliths raised in honor of the brilliant thinkers and brave leaders who had fueled the war effort with nothing but--

 

He sneezed explosively, raising a huge red cloud as every vent emptied. Then he clamped his armor and swore bitterly as he tried not to suck any of it back in. Damnable weather. If Optimus flinging himself into the Well was the fix that the planet needed, he could have at least petitioned Primus to end rust storms forever. But of course, the damned Autobot was a grounder; what would he know about the trials and sorrows of Seeker life? What would he even _care?_

 

Having no fuel made everything perfect. Perfect like a curl of zinc atop a mercury treat. _Just so._ Why would grim Fate smite Starscream with anything less than perfect misery? Yes, everything conspired to bring low the mighty, to kick dust in the faces of those who had struggled and bravely--

 

He sneezed again and, temporarily ceding the battlefield to the airborne particles, staggered farther into the darkness to get away from his own expelled cloud. (It wasn't a defeat. It was just a minor setback.) He hit the back of the space with his outstretched claws. Only a few paces long and just wide enough for his wings to move freely, accessible only by a crack that required just a touch of undignified squeezing. None of his pings brought back life signs, though his equipment was so thick with crud that a fairly large lifeform could have hidden in the gray, uncertain returns. It was quite a decent bolt hole, all things considered, and Primus knew he was far enough away from any cities to avoid the Autobots' undisciplined excuses for patrols.

 

The storm kicked up hard enough to throw a spray of dust down into the crack, wind shrieking over the hollows in the raw metal. It would be some hours before it passed and he could take flight again and continue runn--no, not running. Who did he have to run from? (Apart from everyone, except possibly his...friend. Nearly everyone.) No, no, not running. _Reconnoitering._ Plans had to be made to free his Decepticons from their Autobot-induced blindness so that they would take their rightful place benea-- _beside_ him and conquer the planet as they had always intended to do, Emperor or no Emperor.

 

Well, first there would have to be fuel. Somehow. Plenty of fuel, and then... _world domination_. Ahhhh, yes. Victory so close that he could taste it...behind all of the rust grit in his intake and in every other place that grit could possibly cling. But still. The taste of victory, yes.

 

He'd recharge to wait out the storm, and then everything could be set in motion. There was some kind of rumpled mass on the ground, something he couldn't be bothered to aim a light at to see, probably some kind of expired cyberplantmatter. It was heaped up craterlike, as if it were a nest, and as he laid down on it he found that the hollow it made was perfectly sized for his frame. He curled up, fantasies of conquest dancing in his brain module, and the last thing he thought before shutdown was how soft this bed was, how much softer it was than he'd expected it to be...

 

*

 

_In his dream, Starscream was being detailed for some exciting and wonderful event. His friend was there, his good friend - for in the dream his mind did not hesitate with the truth - the good mech who had put his body back together and had been such a dear comfort to him when he had been only a drifting spark. There was his friend, his poor grounder friend who had given up his wings like a fool (but a dear fool); there was his friend washing Starscream's handsome wings, then drying, then buffing them so carefully. **Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful** , his friend kept saying, red optics wide with admiration. And then there were a dozen buffers in a dozen careful hands, wielded by vague, admiring mecha who kindly did not impair his view of the sky as they worked over every inch of his frame. **Beautiful, beautiful** , murmured the crowd, and Starscream felt the jealousy from other mecha behind them who were not fortunate enough to minister to him. **Beautiful** , sighed the multitude. And then there was a picking at all of his joints, not just that of friendly hands with keen claws, but as if a hundred surgeons were slipping their micron-picks along all his smallest components, spreading dry lubricant so deep, deeper than he thought possible, and he ventilated deeply and feared nothing, for he was beautiful. His frame moved more smoothly than it ever had during the war, without the slightest effort. He transformed and flew as if coated in oil, a frictionless gleam against the clouds. Thousands below him turned up their faces to follow him, gasping in awe, tears standing in their optics as they adored him._

 

_**Beautiful** , they cried. **Beautiful.**_

 

_He whirled and the clouds wreathed him with all their glory, and who would dare fly in courtship for one such as he? Who would dare to rise from the crowd? He danced in the sky, and he was magnificent, and he wanted for nothing, nothing at all._

 

*

 

Starscream woke slowly, muddily, pulled back by a dream so wonderful that he couldn't remember the last time he had felt so good upon waking. He remembered something about being cleaner than he'd been in millions of years...typical fantasy for someone who'd gotten as thoroughly filthy as he had, he thought as his head cleared. Yes, he had cleanup to manage still. What a nightmare.

 

And yet, when he began to stir on his soft, soft nest, his joints moved more smoothly than they had at any time during the war, which was shockingly unexpected. And so he opened his eyes, and he screamed, and he lashed out with every claw and strut he had to his name until he'd scrambled back across the hollow and his wings smashed against the raw metal wall.

 

It was a... _thing_ , a pink thing, a horrid glowing mass of translucent tendrils that pulsed rhythmically with delicate bands and strings of light. Some parts of it were as thick around as his thigh; others were so thin that they resembled waving, glowing fur where they clustered. So many sizes and lengths and patterns, all filled with that soft, throbbing light, and all now reaching out entreatingly to him from the other end of the cave. He felt something in his brain module, something disturbingly like the sensations that he'd gotten when Soundwave had passed him by too closely. Vague _thoughts_ formed on the surface of his consciousness that were not his own.

 

_~~gentle peace no hurt no hurt soft peace~~_

 

The longest of the tendrils stretched even farther, until it seemed like they might uproot the whole crop, and the tip of the longest just brushed his pede. Revulsion and anger filled him - how dare this filthy thing try to touch him?! - and he burst into motion again, fighting to cram himself into the crack at the right angle to flee.

 

A soft screaming sound bubbled up behind him, and curiosity made him pause and glance back. The thing was shrivelling, starting from the tips reaching out for him and washing back over it, as if it had been caught in a bomb blast with Starscream at its center. The pink flesh turned black and twisted and hard, dropping limply to the ground and curling up in anguish. Those soft cries had been the sound of its meat fusing.

 

He stood, one pede crammed into the crack, and puzzled over the demise of the strange creature.

 

The light from the clear sky outside filtered in through the narrow opening and struck against his plating, and he saw then how beautifully he had been cleaned. Not just cleaned, but _scoured_ of every speck of filth and polished like a pre-war noble. Every joint glided and gleamed a healthy graphite; every talon had been sharpened and every ding and chip smoothed away. He could not remember ever looking and feeling so amazing in millions upon millions of years.

 

More quiet noises were coming from behind him, he belatedly realized after admiring his plating for long moments. Tense, he turned and saw portions of the creature re-inflating just enough to pull its limbs back into a protective ball. Most of it was still diseased-looking, hard and warped as cyberplant branches; the rest of it was only a dull shadow of what it had been before he had...hurt it somehow.

 

Hurt it by being frightened and angry at it? Surely not.

 

_~~hurt sad~~_

 

The thoughts flittered dimly across his mind, along with a stronger sensation of terrible fear and sadness, all directed at him. _It only wanted to help and I--_ He shook his head. Possibly the thing possessed some kind of psychic control capabilities, some sort of weapon against stronger species--

 

_~~no hurt want happy need happy~~_

 

He narrowed his eyes. Surely no creature native to Cybertron - brutal and brutalized Cybertron - could have possibly evolved to _need_ some other creature's happiness and enjoyment. It made no logical sense.

 

_~~please help~~_

 

Tentatively, fearfully, small tendrils began to uncoil, reaching for him, opening for him. The larger ones that had frightened him remained curled tightly around the thing's core, presenting no threat. It was not grasping for him, but only extending a hand, as it were, to request his help. He knew what it needed, improbable as that was, and it was apparently incapable of forcing pleasure out of him to feed itself. _Or so it wants me to think_ , he immediately realized, and as soon as that thought flashed through his mind he saw the tiny tendrils curling and blackening and crying quietly as they shrank against the others.

 

Unbelievable.

 

In the spirit of experimentation, he gathered up all of his natural pride and authority and strutted (cautiously) across the small space towards the creature, wings high, deliberately filling himself with the kind of passionate thunder that he felt in his spark right before delivering a fine speech to the troops. He felt the thing's curiosity and watched as it re-inflated before his eyes, the softening tips of its arms peeking out from under each other as they warily examined him.

 

_~~no hurt?~~_

 

"Not for now," he rasped menacingly, and while it was mildly gratifying to see the creature shrivel a touch and flinch back from his wrath, he quickly realized that he'd spoken aloud in response to...nothing, essentially. Well, there was no saying, really, how smart the creature was - perhaps it deserved being talked to like a sentient being. He held out his arm, displaying the magnificent finish. "Did you do this?"

 

_~~yes yes beautiful~~_

_~~beautiful so good happy beautiful~~_

 

Some pleasant memory tickled at the back of his mind, but before he could reach for it--

 

_~~come back~~_

_~~not done finish come finish~~_

 

The tendrils were reaching for him again, and in their pink glow he saw that there was a patch on his thigh where some kind of clear coating hadn't been smoothed out and had dried in a clumpy smear. He pulled back again and felt sad mental noises in his brain. " _Only_ this, you understand? Just finish the job." Primus knew why the thing had a need to give senatorial detailings to random mecha who wandered in out of rust storms, but it felt so unbelievably _good_ to be so clean and so finely maintained. He was still unconsciously flexing his digits and wrists, marveling at how smooth the action was.

 

_~~yes yes no hurt never hurt come please~~_

 

Gingerly, he sat down on the ground, just close enough for the tendrils to reach the right spot. He watched as one extruded a clear slime over his plating (which he wanted to find disgusting, but which actually had a pleasing smell and was as warm as an oil bath) and another worked the patch smooth and shiny with patient sweeps of its millions of hard-working cilia. Other tendrils reached around the edges of his armor and broke apart into delicate lacings, which wove into his joints, gently working more slime into the tiniest spaces. Despite his natural paranoia, he found his lids slowly sliding down over his optics. _I could print my own currency if I brought this thing back to the city_ , he thought dreamily, imagining how much cash people would have coughed up for treatment like this...before the war, at least. Currently, money was a bit too abstract too be worth much on Cybertron.

 

There was a gentle tugging at his armor, urging him to just tip over on his side and curl up and--

 

He snapped awake, scrambling back from the creature yet again. "Hah! I knew it! You lure unsuspecting people into your clutches and you--"

 

It kept reaching for him with trembling limbs.

 

_~~no no no please~~_

_~~give good dream~~_

_~~not want?~~_

 

The sound in his mind was so quiet and sad. He remembered how he had woken that morning, before he'd even realized that anything was wrong, before he'd even seen what had been done to his body. There had been such a brilliant dream there, something that he could no longer clearly recall, but there had been freedom and joy and a flying more amazing even than waking flight...

 

"You...made that dream happen?" He remembered how soft the bed it had made for him had been. He had lain down expecting dried cyberplants and had been borne up on plush weightlessness, comfortable beyond belief.

 

_~~yes yes come have please~~_

_~~come have~~_

 

It was begging him to lay down and receive another magnificent dream, and be cleaned and soothed. His low fuel warning sent another blink onto his HUD, but curiosity kept him in place. His fuel was not yet critical, but...

 

Caution won out. "What happens if I leave?"

 

_~~sad so sad so lonely~~_

_~~hungry until sleep~~_

_~~sleep forever~~_

 

"I need to find fuel. I _might_ come back." He suspected that he would. There was no other place that was as safe - even other caves were either open enough to let the storms in or deep enough that some depth-dwelling horror might crawl up and slit his lines while he recharged. And as for the cities...there was no place for him there, if he was honest with himself. They were too ignorant to know how much they needed him. This little crevice was as close to prefect as he could reasonably hope to find, and its only drawback was that it was inhabited by an odd gelatinous being that was obsessed with making him happy. _There are worse situations to be in_ , he thought to himself as he squeezed back out through the crack and transformed elegantly in freefall.

 

*

 

_He dreamed, and in his dream he was Emperor. He saw himself rise, saw the purple Decepticon brand burn before he closed his fist around it. He saw awe and envy in Megatron's eyes before he brought down his pede and saw the warlord's breastplate shred beneath it like foil, saw the poisoned purple spark shudder as he slammed it down into the core of that alien world, into Unicron's maw. He raised up the sigil of the Winglord and the crowds bowed down before it, revering it above even the Primal Matrix. The Primes were forgotten and the world was rebuilt in his image, with beauty and science and flowing with honor given to his name. His citadel was built as an expression of the Golden Mean, an expanding spiral down from the pinpoint peak of his tower, upon which he sat enthroned above the clouds. He gazed across the curve of the planet and watched health and life return to the world under his perfect shepherding. He heard grounders and flyers alike intone his name as if ringing a sweet bell with their glossae, gentle and reverent. All things flourished beneath him. All things praised him._

 

_Above all other life on the world, the Emperor knew no equal...save the one whom he would claim as such._

 

_And who would rise, out of all the multitudes? Who would dare to rise and court the glory of the new world? Who dared...?_

 

*  
  
Starscream struggled out of the warm embrace of the dream, again reluctant to return to the waking world. He remembered power this time, endless and infinite power that had fallen into his grasp as easily as a nanoflower petal. Oh, so much power, power that he _deserved_ , power that, indeed, deserved _him_. There was worthiness there, something that he would gladly drain his spark to the dregs to obtain. Oh, such perfect power.

 

He began to move, feeling the touch of the creature's tendrils as it kept him buoyed up in warmth and comfort, still stroking carefully along his plating as it brought him back to proper finish and condition. The petting, particularly on his wings, calmed him immensely, tempting him back down into sleep. He could understand fully how this creature could be so addictive, how it needed no psychic weaponry at all to keep other beings entranced by it. He wanted that dream again badly...but the search for fuel the day before had not gone well. He'd found an outcropping of crystals, some of which had been large enough to bother feeding into his subspaced survival-model refinery, others of which had been so small that he'd choked them down whole rather than trouble the machine with them. He was fueled, but not well, and not for long. There would have to be another search today, and if nothing could be scrounged from the wild then he'd have to risk a trip back toward civilization to steal a few cubes from a supply drop on the edge of the rebuilding. Damn his miserable situation. Belatedly, he realized that his foul mood was scorching the tendrils nearest to his head.

 

_~~food need? have~~_

 

"What?" Now _there_ would be cause for celebration, if this place could provide him not only with shelter and security but also with a source of fuel. Who knew how the creature had secured it, but--

 

Out of the depths of the nest of coils came a distinctly different-looking tendril, blunt-tipped and such a pale pink that when the liquid energon rose inside its hollow center the color of it suffused the flesh and made it glow a soft blue. And the fuel looked astonishingly pure, given the source - clear but vibrantly alight, free of any particulates or visible impurities, better than even the highgrade that he'd seen over the last few million years. He wondered if even his own kind could remember how to produce fuel of such a fine quality.

 

The tendril hovered before his face, a droplet of blue illuminating the orifice at its tip. Around him, the rest of the limbs gently shifted him into a position that would be more comfortable for drinking, continuing to stroke him, particularly over his wings and, gradually, across his--

 

He flinched away from the touch. " _No._ Not...not there." Memories of the last person who had touched his panels surged up in his mind, making him expect that his wish would not be heard, but the tendrils obediently parted around his loins and kept contact with his backside only to support him. The respect surprised him, even as he hated himself for expecting otherwise. _You shouldn't be ignored. He was wrong to take what he wanted. You know that he was wrong_ , he chided himself.

 

Hesitantly, he opened his mouth for the fuel, wondering if he'd have to catch a stream of the stuff and how he would swallow properly; his concerns were laid to rest when the tendril simply moved past his lips and settled comfortably atop his glossa. He twitched in surprise, but let his lip-plates close around the intrusion as the tube slowly moved inward. He felt it flex as it spread its tip inside of him, and then the fuel flowed freely into his mouth.

 

The taste was indescribable, an ever-shifting flavor that changed with every spurt that issued from its source - pure, crystalline, unlike anything that he had tasted before or during the war. He made a sound of surprised pleasure and the creature blossomed happily around him, bathing him with its light and curling its extremities into a warm cocoon around him. The feeding tendril rippled slightly as it pumped nourishment into him from somewhere in the ground below. Greedy for more, he leaned forward, pushing the tip deeper into his mouth, trying to strangle those memories of what else he had once had there, of cruel hands gripping his helm, of the blunt tip battering against his intake hatch, forcing in deeper--

 

He retched, panicking, feeling the memory against his plating and scrambling to have his oppressor _out of him._ Shining fuel spattered over his lips and down his breast as the creature jerked away from him, echoing his fear as it withdrew, pulling its limbs into the nest beneath him.

 

_~~sorry sorry sorry~~_

 

Starscream shook himself and forced the memory back into the dark with the others, slamming his mental door against them. He was here now, he had something that he wanted, and the past would not keep him from getting it. He reached out and snared the feeding tube as it prepared to curl back into its brethren, and he thrust it into his intake and began to suck. The tube squirmed uncomfortably for a moment, but finally acquiesced; he felt it flex and spread again, delivering a stronger stream of fuel now that he was aiding it. Yes, this was what he wanted, this delicious taste and the fullness pouring down into his tanks. Always, during the war, there had been rationing, always just a carefully measured serving of what one's frame needed to function at the required levels. No one was ever _full_ during the war. He had not had such a bounty in millions of years, a feast in which he could take as much as he pleased, and he meant to enjoy it and drink the creature dry, if that was even possible.

 

He closed his eyes contentedly, savoring the fuel, letting his sucking fall into rhythm with the tentacle's pumping. As he did, his mind drifted back to long before the war, to dim memories of a similar act that was not performed with violence, but only for mutual pleasure. He remembered sensual teasing, the smell of fine oils, the moans of his partner as Starscream mouthed his spike. They were good memories, ones that he'd forgotten that he had even had - there were crueler things that had forced them out of place - and he reveled in them now as he filled himself. He found his glossa curling against the tube, stroking it, flickering over its length and protecting it from his dentae; unconsciously, he began to move his head, letting his lip-plates shift over the slick surface as he withdrew before pressing it in deeper, again and again. He remembered a beautiful Seeker gasping his name, and in his mind his lover's plating was a rich, royal red, although he knew that the memory would have shown him a different color.

 

Around him, the nest of tendrils was blazing with light; the limbs not occupied with cradling and petting him were squirming delightedly around each other, spiralling and curling, separating and rejoining, making a beautiful display of its rapture as its beloved one enjoyed its gift so thoroughly.

 

Eventually, he was forced to stop when both his primary and auxiliary tanks were literally overflowing with the tube's delicious bounty. The way he had fondled the tendril with his mouth had made him heat between his thighs, hungry now to take his own spike in his hand. He felt the creature's questioning and shivered as he wondered how it would satisfy that particular need, but-- "No. Not there." And it obeyed. He found himself enjoying the novelty of someone who would recognize _no_ as what it was; he felt the creature pick up on his pleasure and rejoice that it had been the cause of it. He could certainly get used to such consideration.

 

The temptation to curl up again inside the nest's embrace and fall into another dream was immense. His tanks were almost uncomfortably full, but even that discomfort was welcomed as a rare and fascinating experience. It would be so easy, so easy to just remain, to recharge again and wake to be fed...

 

"Is this how it's going to be?" he asked the creature. "Refuel, recharge, nothing else ever again? Is that what you want?"

 

_~~no~~_

 

The tentacles were drawing back from him; the ones underneath him were carefully prodding at his armor, urging him to get up.

 

_~~go fly~~  
~~go fly come back happy~~_

 

He got to his pedes and looked back at the creature, feeling touched in his spark. It had the sentience to know that he would sink into quiet despair if he were tamed such that he would only dream and suckle fuel. His mind demanded exercise and his body wanted the feeling of wind over his wings. He could not remain himself and keep his will to live without such things. Thinking on this, he walked slowly to the crack in the mountainside and left. Behind him, the glowing creature folded in on itself, banking its light, hoarding its stores of Starscream's happiness.

 

*

 

_In the dream, he dodged in and out of the clouds, stretching himself to the limits of his frame and his skills, and his suitor was close behind him. He tilted up and right until he spun on a wingtip, dodging away from a towering cumulus just as the other burst free of it - deep red with silver accents, a VTOL model with one strong turbine set in each wing, but lightweight and maneuverable despite all its heft. Starscream poured more power through his engines, but his suitor lunged up from below, flying belly to belly with his Winglord. Starscream twisted a corkscrew into a corkscrew, turning Immelmann after Immelmann at blinding speed, but the other matched him, turning with him, responding to the subtlest of his currents, and the Emperor knew that he had been caught at last. He cast eager glances at his partner through his altmode's camera lenses, coveting the richness of that red, wanting red over him, around him, inside him--_

 

*

 

Starscream jerked awake, flailing partly out of the nest of the creature's arms. Snarling in ill temper at finding that the dream was again just a dream, he scored the raw metal floor with his talons, bitterness filling him despite the by-now-expected perfect state of his finish and maintenance. _Damn you to the Pit, Knock Out, you and your ridiculous sports car fetish. If you hadn't given up your wings, I would-- If you'd only, I would have--_

 

A draft of cool air on an unusual part of his anatomy made him realize that the modesty panels over his interface array had sprung open during that dream ( _damn it all yet again, though how much of the dream's content could be blamed on the creature and how much was--_ ). The tip of his spike had already emerged and there was a sheen over what he could see of his valve rim.

 

Damn it all for a third time.

 

"Well?" he snapped at the creature, which was hovering in an uncertain halo around his body. "You have all those... _fingers_ and there's nothing you can do about this?" Muttering about how such a beast naturally couldn't be trusted to pleasure a mech and that of _course_ he'd have to take care of himself by himself, Starscream turned on hands and knees to climb back into the soft center of the nest...and then suddenly there was a tentative lick, like a warm glossa, across his components. He shuddered at the soft touch, and then there were clever, delicate tendrils inside the joints of his legs, stroking sensitive wires and leaving warm oils behind them. "More of that," he murmured, and felt the glossa-tentacle return with several friends, each one a different size and caressing a different section of his valve, but not yet moving inside. A trio of tendrils began to minister to his spike-tip, which refused to relax enough to emerge further for them.

 

He crossed his arms on the nest in front of him and rested his cheek against them, keeping his backside up and available to his companion, spreading and fluttering his wings to signal that he wanted them petted as well. Large, soft limbs spread across their planes, stroking him in gentle waves, while tiny filaments snuck down into the joins and seams to pluck at sensitive wires. He purred and worked to keep calm, to prevent the memories of the last time ( _the many last times_ ) he had submitted to a partner from coming up and overwhelming the present sensations. No, those times had been brutal and fast - there had been little to no preparation of his valve. _That one_ would have been amused at the very idea of _licking_ a partner to make one soften for him. He never required _softness_ to gain entry to whatever he wanted. Sometimes, Starscream believed that the less prepared he was for interfacing, the more Megat-- _that one_ enjoyed it. Starscream's...friend became very used to seeing and repairing those distinctive tears in his internal mesh. There was nothing to be done for it at the time; it was simply how things were, and he could not fight his way free of it, not even to save his reputation from the whispers of his troops.

 

And so this...this was a novelty, something he could only dimly remember having from the days before the war, when luxuries such as fine lovers had been available to him and he was free to extricate himself from painful circumstances. Yes, slowly he was remembering how pleasant it was to be touched and sucked at tenderly until the rim of his valve loosened on its own, until he began to spread against an affectionate glossa and drip his own natural lubricant. He sighed and pressed back against the tendrils as they lapped up the drops that fell from him, missing only a few that fell down onto the squirming bed of the creature's body. He could feel, in the front of his mind, how delighted the beast was that it could create such pleasure in him.

 

Below his belly, the three tendrils continued to explore the tip of his spike, which remained the only part of it accessible. _That one_ had never required the use of Starscream's spike; it was safer to keep it from protruding, even during those rare times when he had been aroused enough that pressurization might have otherwise been involuntary. He was disconnected from the enjoyment of it, rarely even pleasuring it on his own when he had the charge and _that one_ had not required the use of him. It was safer, and normal for him now, to simply pretend that it didn't exist.

 

His disconnection was severed suddenly when one of the thinnest tendrils rose up, dripping with its silken-thick oils, and began to slowly explore and then enter the nozzle at the tip of his spike. He had never felt this before, this slow, careful, mobile pressure reversed down his channel. Shocked, he lifted himself up off his arms and looked under himself, watching it disappear into his tip. It varied its movements inside of him as it traveled toward his transfluid tanks - sliding straight, corkscrewing, wriggling to and fro - and he let out a shaking ventilation as the sensations on his delicate internal mesh excited him as he had not been for millions of years. His spike slowly lengthened and fattened, reaching out to meet the rest of the tendril and feel more of that delicious inching inside of itself. He let it move as it wanted, hardening slowly instead of rushing, enjoying the sensation of himself emerging from the hard pelvic sheath for the first time in an age of life. Moaning at the luxurious sensation, he spread his knees farther on the ground and bowed his back, thrusting slowly against the length inside his dripping spike.

 

Not that he wanted at all to escape the pleasure in his valve, where the tentacles had not been idle either - more had come to gently slip inside of him while the others remained external, lapping at him and softly pinching and teasing his outer nodes and rim with their tips. Those within had wasted no time in mapping out all the places that had made him gasp and squirm back against them, and more entered all the time, tangling in slippery braids with the others, all heaving and pulling together as they found those tender nodes and dragged across more and more of them with every movement. Plump limbs coiled through the center of the column, filling it out in order to slowly spread his valve wider; delicate ones flickered at the edges, sometimes pressing firmly against his nodes and sometimes brushing feather-soft cilia across them.

 

Starscream felt drowned in more bliss than he had known for the whole of the war - the soft stroking over his wings had spread out to cover his entire body, fondling the edges of smaller plates and rolling smooth caresses over larger ones. His hips were moving without his conscious control, chasing pleasure with increasing hunger; behind him was the ever-growing, spiralling mass of arms that sought out every perfect point within his valve to press on as he thrust back, and before him was the transgressive pleasure of fucking his own spike with an organic pseudopod, thrusting against it to drive it deeper and deeper into himself, feeling it push against the hatch of his transfluid chamber as its brethren stroked every inch of him. He dimly became aware that he had been screaming - for some time, even - begging, affirming, making wordless sounds of lust and eagerness to drive the creature on and bring _more, more, more of everything._ His appetite, long starved out of him during the war, came roaring back and filled him entirely; he _wanted_ ; he was consumed by need and drank up every perfect thing done to him that satisfied it.

 

It was his spike that made him tip over first, that fast, soft knocking against the hatch deep inside his frame. The hatch pulled aside and the tendril thrust into the chamber instead, stirring the transfluid that was bursting out of him in great gushes. The pumps inside his pelvis strained to push their load past the obstruction inside his spike, and the overload was savagely intense for their efforts, stronger than he ever recalled one being. Breathless, he lowered his head and watched his spike twitch with the force of each spray, drenching what remained of the tendril outside of him and sending long spatters across the creature's writhing body below him. He smiled with the satisfaction of it, the bliss of the climax coupled with the sight of his silvery ejaculate marking his lover's flesh. Mats of tiny cilia rose up and began to drink away the transfluid, and then he was through with watching because the coil thrusting into his valve had finished him at last.

 

It slammed home with decisive force, and every node was struck just so, the valve penetrated firmly to its very peak, the tender rims squeezed as though between suckling lips, and Starscream's body felt like a ringing bell, every plate and strut and wire singing the same perfect note of overload, erasing him utterly until there was only tone and light and feeling. He could not even cry out, but only arched silently against the force of it, destroyed by it and grateful to his depths for that destruction; he was utterly gone from himself until the one note of climax faded inside of him, and then he followed it away from himself as he lay down in the arms of his lover and slept.

 

*

 

The next time he returned from a long flight, he was near ecstatic. He had snuck onto some of the worksites, had made contact with some of his more notable Eradicons, stirring them up with his impassioned plans for the overthrow of the Autobots and the resurgence of Decepticon power over the world. They had agreed with him, had brought in others of their kind to hear him, asked him to repeat his promises of glory and power after the downfall of the hated enemy. With only a trickle of Neutrals returning to the planet, the Decepticon soldiers provided the backbone of the Autobots' workforce on the new cities; if word of his planned uprising spread throughout the ranks, poisoning that immense well against the enemy, then they would find themselves utterly beyond help when the day of execution arrived. So much work had built up to this point - observing their schedules, mapping out the construction sites, tracking the movements of particular people so that he could create his perfect storm among them.

 

It would all pay off. It was only a matter of time now.

 

He burst through the crack in the mountainside eagerly, possessed by his indestructible good mood, and flopped down backwards onto the uncoiling mass of the creature. "Be a pet and clean up my carbon scoring, won't you? That's a good...whatever you are." He sighed and stretched luxuriously across his soft berth, the very best berth that anyone on this planet could have. Already it was diligently scrubbing away just as he'd commanded. Ah, if only everyone was so perfectly obedient. The planet would have been in order by now. "And let's have a feast tonight. The plan's coming together and I need to tell you _all_ about it." The feeding tube emerged from beneath the nest and he gave it a few affectionate strokes as it hovered at the ready.

 

"Oh, and also..." He leaned back, opened his modesty panels, and spread his legs comfortably. "I expect you to frag me like a Primal courtesan. Don't waste my time, now," he mock-menaced with a teasing smile. The creature's smooth, sensitive tendrils moved over his hips like a wave, and in seconds he was moaning with bliss.

 

*

 

He returned from the day of his plan's execution in utter silence, scored by more than just his own jetfire. Blaster beams had hissed across his plating at a dozen different angles, searing but not fully breaching his armor - a testament to his dodging skills, possibly, or to the steady hands of shooters who were determined to do no lasting harm.

 

They had lied. They had set him up and snitched to the Autobots, and when the day of the uprising came, he was driven off by his own soldiers, who had stood pauldron-to-pauldron with the Autobots. They wanted their chains. They wanted imperfect leadership. They didn't want anything of his at all.

 

The tendrils withered only slightly on contact with his bleak mood, since it wasn't directed at them. They reached out with concern as he stood, arms hugging himself across his spark, wounded by grief and betrayal.

 

When he reclined, he did so silently, emotionless as an automaton, and the creature knew that a purgative needed to be applied or else its beloved would drown in himself and all his sorrow. Carefully, it began to weave its limbs around Starscream's, stretching him out across its soft bulk, wrapping the strongest of its tentacles around him.

 

_~~let go~~_

 

" _You_ let go," the Air Commander muttered without feeling, but the creature fed back to him his need for this treatment.

 

_~~let go~~_

_~~heal~~_

 

Irritated, he began to kick and squirm against the creature's grip, but he remained held fast. He struggled harder, and finally a dam seemed to shatter inside of him and he _screamed_ in rage and anguish, all his strength pouring out of his limbs as he fought to destroy what he could not even touch. The tendrils were soft against his plating but as immovable as cast iron. He screamed, and after long minutes his screams resolved into torrrents of words, curses thrown against his soldiers, the Autobots, Megatron, Primus, all others who had ever wronged him. He cursed himself at the last, quietly, and then his voxcoder went offline from overuse and he was left, trembling and mute, in the arms of his only companion. Optical lubricant streamed over his cheeks, cutting trails in ash. He shook, body and spark brought past their limits, and then he calmed, and as the tension dropped from him, the hold around him loosened and the creature brought its arms in to cradle and soothe.

 

His voxcoder did not come online until some time later, but still he mouthed over and over, _Thank you. Thank you._

 

_~~welcome~~_

_~~always welcome~~_

 

*

 

It was not his way to grieve for a plan too long - bouncing back from difficulty was part of what made him who he was. But while he grieved, he grieved hard, and so the creature allowed him his distress and did not clean him as it usually did. It left him ashen, soaked in the evidence of his failure. He curled fetal-like on its cushiony flesh and stayed silent, even after his voice repaired itself. After some hours, the creature offered him its feeding tube and he accepted it, drinking mechanically until he was filled. It withdrew, projecting its worry to him, but he remained staring into the dark corners of the cave.

 

"Do you...have a name?" he croaked softly, suddenly, his voice still healing from his purifying screams.

 

_~~no~~_

 

"Need to call you...something. ...Home. You're Home."

 

It felt the harmonics that wove meaning all throughout the simple word and glowed with happiness over it. A perfect word. Its new favorite word.

 

"Don't worry, Home. I'll be fine in the morning."

 

And he was, just as he had promised.

 

 


	2. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time has passed since Starscream met Home. Now he has the opportunity to help his tentacled friend in return.

It had taken him a long while to convince Home to let him assist it with its young. Ever since he had learned, by accidentally connecting with its mind deeper than usual, that the creature habitually reabsorbed its offspring because they had nowhere to live and no one to feed upon, Starscream had taken it as a personal mission to help it reproduce. Thinking of Home being forced to digest its children because there was no life for them to live activated a fierce protectiveness in him. If the planet was being rebuilt with new homes for all survivors of the war, then this creature could not be left out - it had lived where whole species had died, and he would not permit it to accept a fate that forced it to murder its own kind. Over long months, he wore it down, first with questions, then with requests, then with demands. Home refused to involve him, even after he became attuned to its mindstream sufficiently to feel its guilt when he returned from flying to discover that it had consumed its latest batch of children. Finally he threatened it with his anger and disapproval and it agreed to take him up on his offer, unable to hide its gratitude and its concern for his involvement in the process.

 

He had suspected since shortly after meeting Home that the creature was an artificial lifeform, engineered as some sort of rare pet; to keep it controlled, the species' reproductive process had required outside involvement by its handlers or else the children would die. They required a sort of incubation chamber in which they could reach their first instar, protected from any atmosphere or a long list of environmental impurities. Afterward, they would be mobile and capable of choosing their own rooting-place for their sessile adult forms.

 

How to keep them protected while transporting them hundreds of miles to the Autobot cities? Home had no idea that it was willing to put forth, but Starscream thought briefly on the environmental restrictions of the newborns and made an obvious conclusion. He laid back among his paramour's glowing tendrils, spread his legs, and opened his valve panel. "I'll carry them in here." Home attempted to object. "No, anything else won't work. Now do it before I reconsider."

 

And it obeyed.

 

Home's swaying limbs settled over his own, knowing how much he enjoyed their weight and strength on him, how they gave him the freedom to thrash and struggle. They lifted him up, spreading his legs wider and angling his hips into the air. From the core of the nest came a heavy tendril that, like the feeding tube, had little light of its own, shining transparent as water. Starscream bit his lip, feeling his frame respond to the sight, anticipating pleasure; already, he felt his valve overflowing its rim, dripping lubricant down over his backside. He had long ceased to be ashamed of how ready he was, at all times, for what his companion could give him.

 

Like all of Home's tendrils, the breeding organ could liquefy its surface into sleek oil that was at least on par with Starscream's own lubricant. Between the two of them, there was no resistance against its entry, and Starscream groaned as the tip parted his valve and kept parting and parting it until he was stretched wide around its girth, feeling it flexing and working itself deeper into him. He squirmed in the grasp of the other tentacles, longing to impale himself on it more firmly. He felt the tip open inside of him and watched its surface ripple as it flexed in peristalsis, bringing one of Home's embryonic children up from below the ground. The tube bunched and pushed around the egg as it rose, and as it moved the forepart of the organ slowly filled him with a thick, clear, musky jelly that rapidly outmatched his valve's capacity and began to drip freely from him onto the nest below.

 

He saw, with some concern, that the egg was nearly the size of his own fist, but since it was made of the same flexible material as the rest of his companion, he supposed that it should be able to squeeze past the rim of his valve. Pleasure was swamping his worries as the smooth thrusting of Home's sex and the gushing of its amniotic fluid kept him constantly on the edge of overload. A particularly powerful surge made him throw his head back and moan, and he felt the egg pressing against him, encased in the gelatinous tube that carried it. He tried to relax himself as best he could while the tube pressed outwards against him, trying to stretch him further. Pressure built behind the egg, and he lifted his head to watch it begin to flex, trying to accommodate his opening. And with one sudden rush, it was inside - there was a flare of pain that colored the pleasure of having something so large and round inside of him, and he overloaded with a screech, his valve walls rippling frantically against the egg, pulling it deeper, _wanting_ it deeper. He had never had something in him of such a size; not even _that one_ could compare, and he felt a greater pleasure in his spark upon realizing that _that one_ had been surpassed yet again.

 

The next egg was quickly lifted into position, and it was only when another tendril gently prodded Starscream's emerging spike that he realized that he had pulled back his other cover. He welcomed its attention with his thoughts, unwilling to limit himself to only one form of pleasure, and he smiled as he watched the tip open and expand to cover him down to the rim of his spike casing. He closed his eyes and felt it begin to suckle at him, eager for his desire, as the breeding organ began to pull his valve wider yet again to admit the second egg. He let himself hang limp in Home's many-limbed grip, eyes drifting closed as he let his spike swell and stretch down the throat of the tendril that was making love to it, feeling every plane and node excited to high charge by the moisture, the stroking, the hunger for his transfluid that radiated from it. Lifting his hips, he moved in tandem with his partner, simultaneously thrusting his spike down its tube and pushing against the bulk of the egg, wanting it to enter him. Home glowed with bliss underneath and around him. Starscream grunted at the sudden stretch when the orb slipped suddenly past his rim, and then overload exploded through him again and erased every thought in his mind. Dimly, he was aware that while his valve was pulling eagerly at the breeding organ and the mass of the two eggs, his spike was emptying itself into Home's accommodating tentacle, jerking with every spurt of fluid. Home swallowed all of it down into its depths, then settled into a gentle, fondling ripple around his half-pressurized spike.

 

Exhausted from his dual overload, he dangled from Home's arms, dazed and full, but not yet to capacity. "More," he gasped, trying to spread his legs farther to encourage his companion's mating. He could feel a third egg nosing against his valve and Home's eagerness around him, but the creature still hesitated.

 

_~~need food here take~~_

 

"Hmm?" But the answer was already apparent in the blue glow of the feeding tube that arched up over his face, the tip drizzling fuel in its excitement. He realized that he'd been ignoring his low fuel warnings and opened his mouth appreciatively. He hummed contentment as he settled his lip-plates around the blunt tendril, anticipating pleasure beyond only refueling. He had learned that he enjoyed the simulation of a spike in his intake, particularly now that the experience was no longer being forced upon him by someone who frightened him. In the place of those painful memories were others from before the war where he and his long-lost lovers had spent hours in affectionate play. He'd found that he missed those times enough to want to relive them with his new companion, who was always glad to comply. Starscream cradled the spreading tip of the tentacle with his glossa, encouraging it to open fully as he lifted his head to suck, moving up and down the length inside his mouth. He felt this own spike hardening again as he imagined playing with a partner's. Home had learned how much Starscream appreciated the sensation of a lover's climax in his mouth, and instead of offering a steady stream of fuel for him to drink down, it began to thrust into him, releasing a jet of heated fluid with each movement. Starscream moaned around the tube, delighting in the ever-changing taste of Home's nourishment as he swallowed the creature's glowing load, revelling in a partner who could overload longer than one of his own species ever could, long enough to fill his tanks to the brim with its delicious outpouring.

 

The new fuel revitalized him, and he began to kick and pull at the binding tendrils - not to escape them, but to use them as leverage to press himself up against the waiting egg. He could look past the tube in his mouth to see the gentle bulge under his abdominal plating, and beyond that, the curve of his erect spike inside its tube mirroring that of his stomach, and beyond that, Home's sex disappearing into his body, holding the gelatinous egg ready for him.

 

As he began to shift in earnest, all the tentacles ministering to him began to flow into motion as well. Those holding his arms brought them up above his head so that his flapping wings were free to move, slipping thick tips into his hands so that he could squeeze and stroke them like a lover's servos. The feeding tube continued to pound into his mouth, lustily spurting health against his intake hatch, while the tendril surrounding his spike began a luxurious spiralling and twisting around him, dripping lubricant against his full belly. And farther below, the breeding organ met his thrusts and began to push against them, urging the egg to flex against his stretched valve, all while other limbs lifted up from the nest and stroked him lovingly and alien thoughts petted his mind and called him _beautiful_. Hungrily, he swallowed the fuel in his mouth and shoved against the egg harder and harder until--

 

The bright flicker of pain as the egg slipped past the rim and even greater fullness as it pressed in against its siblings and made him swell even larger set him off for a third time, and the overload had him thrashing and shivering and fluttering in his bonds, which held him tenderly and firmly through it all. He blacked out momentarily, and when he came to, he saw the last of his transfluid being drained away from his spike while the feeding tendril, having detected that his tanks no longer required filling, was slowly and gently thrusting past his lips, its closed tip against his glossa. Contentment welled up in him and Home's happiness surrounded him. He sighed, sucking lazily on the feeding tube, rolling it across his glossa as he flexed his fingers against the tendrils in his hands, feeling the heavy mass sitting deep inside of him, filled with the lives of Home's children.

 

For a while, he relaxed that way, being held and loved, and then he flexed his valve around the breeding organ and lifted his hips, certain that he could take a fourth egg. The feeding tube pulled itself slowly free of his mouth, hovering near so that he could set a kiss against its tip. "More," he panted, and Home obliged him. The host of arms held him gently, aware of the strain that the work had been putting on his frame, and the next egg pressed against him with careful insistence. The tendril surrounding his spike withdrew, laying the limp organ against the swell of his lower plating. Although exhaustion was fuzzing his thoughts, he nevertheless met the pressure from below as well as he was able, concentrating on keeping his valve relaxed and rising to meet the egg's soft thrusts, trying to help it into his frame. The effort took longer than the others, but the pleasure of feeling it slip past his rim and shove hard against the mass already inside of him was just as transcendent as before, and once again he followed the ecstasy downwards into blackout.

 

When he woke, he checked his fuel levels and lifted his hips once again, although the motion took some effort around the thick bulge of the four eggs inside of him. "More. I can take more," he rasped.

 

_~~no no no~~_

_~~too much~~_

_~~no hurt never hurt~~_

 

He acquiesced, feeling how his plating could not possibly lay flat over his stomach and belatedly remembering that he had to somehow transform around it. "Promise me that you won't kill the others."

 

_~~........~~_

 

"Promise me that you _will not_ kill them!"

 

_~~promise promise~~_

_~~this again later~~_

_~~all children go~~_

 

He ex-vented in a rush. "Good. Remember that you promised." And the exhaustion covered him then, and he fell into recharge.

 

Transforming into his altmode had been a slow and difficult process, and as he flew towards the new construction around the old cities, the sensation of pressure inside the belly of his jet form increased as the children grew past their first, profoundly vulnerable stage of life. It was almost unbearable when he finally reached the outskirts of the new buildings and transformed back into root mode; he'd staggered on his pedes then, nearly unbalanced by his swollen front, all his plating stabbing outwards, askew over the pregnant dome. He hurriedly ducked into the first large patch of shadow that he could find, glancing around as a cursory check for enemy patrols. The luxury of time was not with him; already he could feel the quartet of worries reaching up to his mind, fearing that they would soon be too large to be born. Like their parent, they hated the thought of his suffering.

 

Having never been one who had previously been concerned with organic methods of reproduction, he wondered at the logistics of getting the eggs back out of himself. A motion like a reversed valve overload, perhaps, waves moving outward instead of inward, but without tightening around the rim...? He crouched in his patch of shadow, near a wall, hoping to blend in with the scenery if a patrol happened by while he was indisposed. His modesty plating transformed backwards into his pelvic armor, baring his interface array.

 

His worry about birthing methods became a moot point as soon as he bent over to examine his components. Gravity had already shifted the eggs downward inside of him, but now the pressure inside his folded body became too great. He gasped and grabbed his knees as the first egg quickly began to crown, shedding a dim pink light as it parted the rim of his valve and came into view. The stretch made the breath catch in his vents, almost too painful to handle for a handful of seconds while the combined mass of the other three eggs pushed the first of their number through the exit. As before, the egg flexed to accomodate its surroundings, and while it was significantly bigger than it had been when it had entered, it had also become even softer. The jellylike orb swelled out of his valve like a growing bubble as he hugged himself against his thighs, trying to press on the eggs and hasten their birth. Suddenly, the portion outside of himself was heavy enough that it pulled the rest through the opening in a rush, landing with a bounce on the recently-laid plasticrete floor. A gush of Home's musky fluids accompanied it, draining out from around the remaining young to form a slightly luminescent puddle around his pedes.

 

The second egg pressed against his opening, nearly as eager to leave as the first. He pressed his armor back into place as well as he could, pushing, folding himself against his spread legs as he struggled to keep himself relaxed. Bit by bit, he began to see the next sphere emerging, dripping as it slowly bulged out past his rim, seeming to grow between his thighs. This time, the stretch was not so urgent as with the first and he spread more slowly until, when he was opened as wide as possible, he found himself aroused enough that his valve was adding its own considerable lubrication to the blend of fluids while his spike swelled up to bump against the curve of his belly. He remembered too vividly the process of having the eggs implanted; he remembered the smooth caresses given to his spike, the multiple overloads that he had spent into the throat of Home's tentacle, and he felt thick drops of preparatory fluid collect at the tip of his organ and fall to the floor. He remembered the thickness of Home's sex, the press of it against his insides as it guided his frame to make room for its young. He savored the size and weight of the eggs still within him, giving him a sense of fullness that nothing else ever had before. Warmth and pleasure rippled through him from where the egg was still slowly passing through, and he let himself clench slightly around it as if around a thick, soft spike. _Absolute divinity._ Another syrupy drop fell from his spike-tip, and he awkwardly rearranged his arms and legs so that he could wrap a hand around it and administer smooth, unhurried strokes. Feeling the egg resist him as he squeezed against it, the soft-yet-firm pushback against his flexing mesh, and his lubricated fingers slipping ever more quickly over the nodes on his spike--

 

He let the overload take him by surprise, and it seized him right when the second egg dropped loose as suddenly as the first had. He bit into his free hand to stifle a scream of bliss as his transfluid spattered down to join the growing puddle. Unexpectedly, his jerk forward against his thighs and the ripples in his valve sent the third egg sliding through to freedom all in a rush, and the stretch extended his overload through another rapturous peak that sent him clattering forward on hands and knees with the three children still safely shepherded between his legs. He gasped with almost painful intensity, pulling cool air through himself, dizzy from the strength of his climaxing. His initial attempts at stealth were entirely ruined, but he could not have cared then if a patrol had found him and watched him give birth. His attention was entirely claimed by the process.

 

The last egg sat heavily on the inner side of his valve rim, weighty with gravity but otherwise without much pressure to drive it downwards. The bulge in his abdomen was gone, leaving him with no easy way to put pressure on the protoform around it. Growing frustrated, he carefully reached back between his thighs and, keeping the sharp edges of his talons away from his own mesh and from the egg, he worked to manually stretch his valve open and begin coaxing it through. Its slippery surface defeated him, however, as there was nothing to catch and pull on to bring it farther out. Spreading his legs as wide as he could and sitting back on his heel-struts, he used both hands to keep his valve rim open while pushing downward with his internal actuators. Slowly, the egg began to swell free of him. The effort made him gasp harder, and for a handful of seconds his concentration faltered and the orb slipped back inside his frame. He gathered himself, set his will, and over several minutes he forced the last egg free of himself, not daring to release his valve to pull at it, but letting gravity and the force of his own body draw it out. It plopped against its brethren in the pool of birthing fluids, and as Starscream ventilated deeply and recovered from his efforts, he saw them begin to stir.

 

Each one of the orbs began to sprout tendrils of all widths and lengths, tiny replicas of their parent in spherical form; with their limbs, they grabbed the ground and pulled themselves into rolling sprints, aiming with increasing accuracy as they practiced spinning about in the area near their erstwhile carrier. They made soft noises of curiosity and glee as they moved, gradually exploring farther and farther from him. Finally, he felt them cast their goodbyes and their gratitude across his mind before they spun away into the dark of the reborn city, carrying their pink glow with them.

 

Starscream moved himself out of the pool of fluid and let himself recover, belatedly searching his surroundings for signs of patrols. He thought back on the events of the day, on his long-ago choice to help Home perpetuate its species and his own belief that more of such creatures could only bring good to his own kind. The carrying and the birth had been difficult and occasionally painful, but he had made Home promise not to destroy any more of its children. He was obligated to return and repeat this same process each time Home's own fecundity impregnated it with a clutch of its clones.

 

The work was worthy of him, he thought. It was not universal power and there was no great adulation attached to it, but it was good and worthy work. Thinking back on his own schemes to gain influence over his own kind (not that he had at all abandoned his interest in such things), he could see that he had never tried any plan that hinged so completely on _giving_ as this one did. He wanted to give, as Home gave to him. If Home's children could give to others as Home had given to him, then...perhaps it was a romantic fantasy, but perhaps there would be a greater chance for lasting peace, without warlords or Primes. Perhaps there would be only the peace that came from perfect generosity.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- This piece was written for http://highglossfinish.tumblr.com , although he didn't actually request it and is not responsible for anything beyond a vague need for fic involving tentacles and Starscream that did not also include non-con.  
> \- The random brain fuel that kept this story moving consisted of "Get This Party Started" by Pink and "Me!Me!Me!" by Teddyloid, featuring Daoko. I don't know how the thing works; I just give it what it wants.  
> \- I've seen the TFP series three times and read the novels once, but I won't pretend that this is an accurate depiction of Starscream. I was unwilling to spend 800 pages on his paranoia and wheels-within-wheels, plus I think I forgot some of his background details from the novels. Damnation.  
> \- Thanks to all the great ficcers and smutters who came before - your combined power inspires us all and forms a terrifying porn-gestalt that will never know defeat. Here's to ye.


End file.
